


scars to make us who we are

by beachkid (binz), binz



Category: Dresden Files - Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: smallfandomfest, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-02
Updated: 2009-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mafioso needs to double-check his facts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scars to make us who we are

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Writer's Choice, monsters
> 
> Following an AU version of _Fool Moon_; a tertiary character is given a personality and name and boldy lifted from Shiplizard's fic [Johnny's little secret](http://community.livejournal.com/dresdenslash/14209.html).

He follows the wizard, trailing his ridiculous wind-up car down the Chicago streets over the course of five days. He keeps cars and traffic lanes between them, changes his vehicle each day, cruises past the Burger King when Dresden pulls in there the second night, and doesn't follow him again until the fourth night, using the time to take care of his loose ends.

He's pretty sure Dresden knows he's there, and on the fifth night, when Dresden pulls to a stop outside a pub Ricky wouldn't have noticed otherwise and gives the passing traffic a hard glare, long duster flapping about his knees like a kid's Hallowe'en costume, Ricky figures it's a given.

He drives around for a few minutes more, turning in what ends up to be a big circle, and pulls over to park a block away from Dresden's mismatched Volkswagen. He stays in the car after he's parked, glowering at Dresden's Beetle in the rear-view mirror, and then at himself. He rubs a hand over his face, presses his fingers to the dark rings under his eyes, and fusses with his hair for a minute. "You're a fucking idiot, Silver," he tells his reflection, and grabs his briefcase before slamming the door and stalking off after the wizard.

He has to duck when he enters the pub - McAnally's, apparently. There's a set of stairs going down and at least a dozen whirling ceiling fans, and Ricky has to force his neck straight and his shoulders to unlock and unhunch once he reaches the floor. There are tables and booths spread out deliberately through the room, with no direct path to anywhere that he can see, and as many thick poles holding the roof up as ceiling fans.

There are a few clusters of people: grey-haired old men at a booth in the far corner, a group of middle-aged women with two tables pushed together at the other side, a lone woman at a table against the wall with a pile of knitting, someone with a dark hood blocking out all features and a gloved hand wrapped around a still-full bottle, and a gaggle of boys and girls spread over three tables in the centre of the room, glasses of Coke and water sending clear signals about their age.

Dresden is in a booth against the side wall, across from the bar (the barman gives Ricky a steady gaze and a nod), still wearing that stupid coat and hunched around a bottle of beer. There's a second bottle across the booth from him, and Ricky twists his lips. So that's how it was.

Ricky settles his expression in time to appreciate Dresden's blink and moment of slack-jawed surprise before his face contracts into a scowl. Dresden's eyebrows narrow towards his nose and his eyes squint, two dark slits that track Ricky's movements as he slides into the booth. His mouth opens, tightening, and Ricky beats him to it. "Dresden," he says.

Dresden is undeterred. "You?" he says. "What is this? Marcone's keeping tabs on me, now? Thinks he can send an, an errand boy to, what, deliver a message? Make me an offer I can't refuse? Huh? You gonna lean on me a little? Propose a deal that's in my best interests? Forget it. I've dealt with faeries, buddy; your boss isn't going be up to cutting anything close to that. I already told Marcone I wasn't working for him. He can take his fancy collar and blood money and choke on them. The scumbag is out of luck."

Ricky raises his eyebrows, watches Dresden rant, and twists the cap off his beer. Heh. Warm. He shoots a glance at Dresden's bottle; no condensation there either. He gives the beer a try, and feels his eyes widen. Whoa. Good. He takes another drink and looks at the label curiously. What is it; some kind of microbrew? Or ... ale. Heh.

"So you tell HIM," Dresden says "... are you even listening to me? Hey. Hey. Spike." He snaps his fingers in front of Ricky's face, and Ricky slaps his hand down on top of Dresden's.

Spike. Huh. No one's called him that in almost ten years.

Dresden scowls and tugs at his hand, trying to free it from Ricky's hold. "Stars and stones, what is with you? You sampling some of your own product or something, huh?"

Ricky grunts and lifts his hand. "Silver," he says. "The name's Silver, Dresden. You done?"

"... am I DONE? Fuck you, no. I'm not done. Why are you _here_, Silver." He turns his lips up at the name, like he's somehow trying to make it an insult. His eyes are a little dull, the promise of rage sparking but falling flat, and there are dark rings under them to match Ricky's own. He's startlingly pale and skinny.

Ricky thinks of that fuzzy video from almost a month ago, and how oddly powerful Dresden had looked, even when so diminutive next to the hulking loup-garou, swinging a light above his head. He scowls, sighs, and pops open his briefcase. He pulls out a copy of the report, and holds it out for Dresden. "You wrote this," he says. "For Lieutenant Murphy. And SI."

Dresden narrows his eyes, but grabs the report from Ricky's hand, flipping through it. "... Yeah," he says. "So what. You want an autograph? Should I dot your 'i' with a heart?"

"Is it true? All of it?" He's more forceful than he means to be, panic tangling on the edge of his words.

Dresden looks up from the papers, meeting his eyes for a second before jerking his gaze away, his scowl slowly turning into something far more inquisitive. "Why?"

"Fuck! Dresden! Just answer the fucking question!" He almost shouts, and clenches his jaw before he can say anything else, chest heaving. Fuck. Fuck. That was stupid, Silver.

The kids flinch, spread out at their tables and trying to look like they aren't all straining to hear every word. One boy, short and stocky, jerks in his chair before a thin, willowy girl reaches across the table to grab his hand.

"Just. Answer the question, Dresden." Ricky realises he's clenching his fist around his beer bottle, and lets go, flexing colour back into his white knuckles.

Dresden eyes him for another moment, before nodding. "Yeah," he says again, "it's all true. Why?"

"All of it? The ... types. How people end up fucking monsters like that?" He swallows; it's more convulsive than he means it to be, and he clamps down on the urge to gag. His peripheral vision swarms with images of snapping fangs and Denton's eyes staying the same while his skin ripples and changes and those teeth buried in Ricky's arm, head thrashing while Ricky tries to pull away. "... Belts. Rings. Being cursed. A ... a spell you do yourself. Being fucked in the head anyway, and just thinking you're an animal. That's all. Right? That's all that does it? Like that says." He stabs a finger down on the report Dresden is still holding, and the kids jump.

"... Hells bells, it was you," Dresden says. "Marcone's thug, the one Denton mentioned, the other footprints at the _Varsity_. The one that got away when the security guard was shredded. That was you. I mean, hell, I'd wondered where you were, later, when only Hendricks was hanging around Marcone, but. Shit. Silver."

Ricky feels his mouth tighten, his lips contracting into a tight asshole, and he tips his head back before he pukes. He'd seen pictures of what happened to that guard, Andre Rogers, who'd had a flat tire and wasn't gone from the strip mall like he was supposed to have been. He'd seen the old man's face when the FBI agents, Harris and Benn, had shoved him inside, and before they'd changed, and torn his throat out.

The last thing he needed from Dresden was some kind of righteous pity.

"Fuck, Dresden," he hisses. "Shut the fuck up, okay. You don't know what you're talking about." The kids are almost openly staring at them, and the lady with her knitting is shooting them glances. The barman looks down and wipes the counter, but Ricky's been around long enough to know when he has an audience. "Just. Fuck. Those are the only ways?" There's a desperate quality to his tone, and he grinds his teeth at it. Fuck.

"You're not going to turn into a monster because you got bitten, Silver." Dresden speaks low and slowly, putting force into each word. "You are not. That's just ... Hollywood bullshit. I didn't write that report for your boss, okay? You know that. I wrote it for a friend of mine; I wouldn't put her or her people in danger like that." He winces as soon as he says it, and Ricky twists his lips. He'd seen pictures of what happened at the police station, too.

"Just. Just think about it logically, okay," Dresden says. "That was before the last full moon. You didn't turn into a monster then, did you?"

"... I was unconscious in a hospital bed, Dresden." He can remember getting into his car, getting a few miles down the road and calling for backup. He doesn't remember anything else until almost a week after; Marcone's drawn face and Hendricks in a room down the hall with a gunshot wound and a strongly expressed distaste for hospital pudding. "I just. I gotta make sure. I'm not. I'm not becoming something like _that_. I'm not doing -- I'm not attacking anyone like those feds did. Or MacFinn."

He's a criminal. He's not a fucking monster.

He's got his papers filed; he's written letters for Johnny and Hendricks, for his mother, living in Cleveland with her parents, and his sister in Vancouver; he's got his choice of cars and his apartment, and his pistol is strapped in his holster, loaded with silver bullets made from some of his father's mother's old silverware, just in case, and waiting.

"Fucking bellstones," Dresden says, and stares hard at him, jerking his gaze away again after a few seconds. "Silver. Fuck. You are not going to turn into one of those things, okay? I mean it. It doesn't _work_ that way. Okay. Okay. Stay here."

Dresden slides out of the booth, meeting the kids' anxious stares and shooing them away and out of the pub with flapping hand gestures and a firm point up the stairs. Ricky can see the exasperated shake of his head when the short, stocky boy tries to say something, and he snorts. He can't see what Dresden says to the barman, but he comes back with two more bottles, stouter and darker than the one Ricky already has, and there's a bit of dust on them when he puts them down.

Ricky takes one, and blows at the dust.

"We'll have some steak sandwiches in a few minutes," Dresden says. Ricky raises an eyebrow at the assumption that he's willing to stick around and eat with Dresden, but drains the beer he already has in order to twist the top off the new bottle.

If he had thought that first bottle was good, this one's gold. It's smooth and dark and strong, and his eyes widen when he drinks it.

"Just. Drink the ale. Calm down. Eat your damn sandwich when it comes." Dresden takes a drink of his second bottle, and makes a surprised face. "... whoa. Mac's been holding out."

Ricky blinks, looks at his watch, and drinks his beer. Ten minutes later, Dresden goes and grabs two plates from the bar -- a real do-it-yourself place; Ricky likes it -- and it's probably the best steak sandwich Ricky's ever had. Dresden looks up a few times, and chases off the stocky kid, the willowy girl, and then another dark haired boy accompanied by a girl with red hair that's almost as bright as Hendricks's.

Ricky smirks when Dresden collapses back into the booth for the third time, rolling his eyes. "These kids. This is not a big brother program. Do I look like mentor material?" He devours his fries, and Ricky starts on his forth beer.

The next time Dresden looks up, his expression freezes mid-scowl, and settles into something blank with narrowed eyes, tracking movement across the floor. Ricky turns, and pulls out his wallet. He leaves the last few fries on his plate, and a couple of bills on the table, and looks over as Marcone and Hendricks draw in beside the booth.

"Mr Silver?" Marcone says, voice light and neutral. "And Mr Dresden. What a surprise." His gaze flickers to the copy of Dresden's werewolf report, still on the table, and he goes still.

"Just leaving, boss," Ricky says, standing and straightening his jacket and hair. "Just had a few questions for Mr Dresden, is all."

"I see," Marcone says, and shifts to allow Ricky to stand beside him. Hendricks grunts from his position at Marcone's other shoulder. "Why don't you ride with us, Mr Silver. Someone can come pick up your car. Good night, Mr Dresden."

They're almost out on the street, blocked from the noise of the pub by the low ceiling and whirling fans, when Marcone speaks again, voice low and calm. "My lawyers delivered some interesting papers to me, today, Mr Silver. It appears you've had a busy week. While I agree that everyone should keep their will and life insurance policy up to date, ... with the expedited timing, given the events of last month, I do hope this does not mean you have made any rash decisions."

"Nah, boss," Ricky says, and pushes open the door to the street, scanning up and down the block and knowing Hendricks has the rear. "Just being careful, is all. You should be stuck with me for a while yet."


End file.
